


Stardust and spilled ink

by anamia



Series: The daemon!jolras AU [4]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac's lover is a poet and a Romantic. There are positive and negative aspects to the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stardust and spilled ink

**Author's Note:**

> Written upon request. This is AU for this 'verse, because this is the first and probably last time I will actually write this ship, but hopefully it's semi-decent anyway. All the fics in this 'verse as well as discussion and headcanon can be found in my [daemon!jolras au](http://kingedmundsroyalmurder.tumblr.com/tagged/daemon!jolras-AU) tag.
> 
> I apologize in advance for my attempts at poetry at the end. I have kept it quite short for everyone's sake.

“I’m sure they’ll be home soon,” Marielle said, tail flicking worriedly even as she tried to be reassuring.

“It’s been hours,” Courfeyrac reminded her, worrying at his shirtsleeve. A moment later he jumped to his feet and began to pace, cast into sharp relief by the flickering fire. “What if something’s happened?”

“They can take care of themselves.” Marielle’s words were somewhat undermined by her own obvious concern, but Courfeyrac nodded anyway, taking a steadying breath.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes I know. I should be more concerned for anyone they happen to meet.” He continued pacing, footsteps sharp on the wooden floor. For a few minutes they and the crackling fire were the only sounds. Every few seconds either Courfeyrac or Marielle would look out the window, eyes peeled for Prouvaire’s slender form, but their lover did not appear. The clock struck two thirty in the morning and Marielle’s tail lashed once.

“We should go to bed. We have classes in the morning.” Even as she spoke her eyes remained glued to the window, undermining her words. Courfeyrac did not even answer, still playing anxiously with his sleeve as he paced. Abruptly he flung himself into a chair, one that faced the window, and scowled.

“We _told_ them to warn us first,” he said, even as Marielle jumped up onto his lap. “We _told_ them.”

“They probably weren’t thinking,” Marielle said with a sigh. “You know how they can get.”

“It’s no excuse,” Courfeyrac said, stroking Marielle’s back somewhat mechanically. “Poets or not they should at least have the courtesy not to worry us half to death.” His voice rose as he spoke and he forced his volume down with effort, free hand gripping the arm of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“It’s their nature,” Marielle said, though she sounded as unhappy as Courfeyrac. “We can hardly turn them into something they’re not.”

Courfeyrac scowled. “I know that,” he said. “I don’t want them to be something they’re _not_ , I want them to not wander off in the middle of the night without warning and stay missing for hours at a time. That is not too much to ask, I don’t think.”

Marielle’s silence signaled her agreement. Courfeyrac continued to stroke her, irritation battling with concern for dominance inside him. In the grate the fire popped loudly but neither man nor dæmon turned to look.

Finally, as the clock showed nearly three, the door opened. Courfeyrac jumped to his feet, Marielle leaping off his lap just in time, and hurried over just in time to pull Prouvaire through, relief overwhelming anger. Marielle pressed against his legs, tail relaxing at last.

“Where have you been?” Courfeyrac asked, feeling the winter’s chill emanating from Prouvaire’s body. Evelyne was wrapped around his neck like a colorful choker, tongue flicking in and out as she tasted the air.

“We needed to feel the stars.” Prouvaire’s eyes were alight and his voice trembled faintly with the strength of his emotions.

It was such a very _Prouvaire_ answer that Courfeyrac could only shake his head. “You couldn’t have warned us first?” he asked with a sigh. Then, noticing how Prouvaire shivered, added, “Or worn a thicker coat?”

The almost manic gleam in Prouvaire’s eyes did not dim even as he laughed and threw his arms around Courfeyrac’s neck. “Who has time to think of such details when the splendors of the universe are waiting to be discovered?” he asked, and then kissed Courfeyrac deeply, his lips as icy cold as his hands.

A moment later they sprang away. “You should have been there,” Prouvaire said, hand flying up to emphasize his words. “Have you ever given yourself wholly to the splendors of the sky and tasted stardust on your tongue?”

“Not in December I haven’t,” Courfeyrac said, pulling Prouvaire to a seat close to the fire. Evelyne slithered down his chest and onto the floor by the fireplace, drawn by its warmth and Marielle immediately went over to her, nudging her in affection and lingering concern.

“So tell me more about the splendors of the universe,” Courfeyrac said, throwing an arm around Prouvaire’s shoulders and pressing closer to him. Prouvaire obliged, words tumbling from his mouth eagerly as his hands gesticulated grandly and his face flushed with returning warmth and emotion. A trickle of blood ran down his left hand but Courfeyrac said nothing; the nights when Prouvaire returned from this kind of excursion uninjured were rare indeed and if he had only a few scrapes as the results of his quest to live the darker emotions to their fullest extent it would be a minor miracle.

By the fire Marielle had curled up around Evelyne, the latter’s vivid colors standing out starkly against Marielle’s dark fur.

Courfeyrac listened fondly to Prouvaire’s excited monologue, though by this point Prouvaire was so carried away in his own words that he had no doubt forgotten Courfeyrac’s presence. Courfeyrac had not entirely forgiven him for the evening’s worry, but attempting to discuss it while Prouvaire was in this state would be a true exercise in futility, so he simply allowed the poet’s passion to wash over him. He felt weariness growing and did not try to fight it, letting his eyes fall closed and his posture relax. He fell asleep to the sound of Prouvaire composing an ode to the faintest of the Plyades, the ghost of a smile on his lips despite himself.

*

Prouvaire had gone when Courfeyrac woke in the morning, no doubt outside again to experience the daylight as strongly as he had the night. Courfeyrac doubted he had slept at all, a suspicion which was confirmed by the sight of several sheets of discarded paper scattered across the floor. Courfeyrac bent and picked one up curiously, expecting to see written drafts of the ode from the night before. The paper was indeed crammed full of Prouvaire’s beautifully flowing script, half the words crossed out and rewritten. A pair of lines with no corrections caught Courfeyrac’s attention and he turned the paper sideways. His eyebrows rose as he read and he felt emotion stirring inside of him almost despite himself.  Marielle made an inquiring sound and he set the paper down so that she too could read Prouvaire’s words.

She laughed. “It looks as though we may have an apology waiting when we return,” she said.

“If they don’t get distracted by the patterns of leaves on the trees,” Courfeyrac said, but there was only fondness in his tone. He left the paper where it was and turned towards his rooms, needing to make himself presentable before going to class. Marielle followed and sat on his bed, carefully grooming her fur as Courfeyrac made his preparations for the day. In the main room the paper fluttered slightly in the breeze made by their passing, couplet clearly legible.

_For your ink spilled across the pages of my heart_

_And filled me with you when our bodies were apart_


End file.
